


The Beauty Pageant

by NancyStew



Category: Death in Paradise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 09:31:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18340931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NancyStew/pseuds/NancyStew
Summary: Richard and his team are sent to investigate financial impropriety at a Caribbean-wide beauty pageant. Their efforts are complicated by the murder of the pageant's smarmy producer.





	1. The Heart of a Ross

Detective Inspector Richard Poole stood onstage in the glaring sun, his dark woolen suit heavy with sweat. On his lapel was a button that said “JUDGE.” To his left stood a line of women in swimsuits; to his right, a male emcee in a sequined jacket; in front, a mostly tipsy crowd watching him expectantly.

“Inspector, your score?” the emcee said, leaning into the microphone. Richard looked helplessly at him. “Inspector? What do you rate Miss Saint Marie?”

Richard looked at the contestants. The strikingly attractive woman in the yellow bikini and “Miss Saint Marie” sash was watching him with an encouraging but impatient expression. They locked eyes and he could hear her voice in the back of his head: _We don’t have time to waste! Get on with it!_

The strikingly attractive woman in the yellow bikini was Richard’s detective sergeant, Camille Borday. 

Richard gulped.

 

**One week earlier**

 

In the Saint Marie police station, officers Dwayne Myers and Fidel Best were watching YouTube and arguing.

“That is not dancing!” said Dwayne. “Hopping and kicking and not moving your arms? That is a zombie imitating a robot!” He demonstrated, clamping his arms to his sides and kicking up his feet.

“Dwayne!” protested Fidel. “Have some respect. That is the style of the dance!”

Undaunted, Dwayne began gyrating his lower half. “For dancing, you got to move your hips… low and slow. Dip it and stick it. Elvis your pelvis.” 

“Of course for you dancing is all pelvis!” exclaimed Fidel. “But they are using something called their _feet?_ ”

“I use my feet! To get closer to my lady on the dance floor…” Dwayne, who had stepped away from Fidel to demonstrate, now started humming an old Venerators song and gyrating toward the junior officer. Fidel rolled his eyes and turned back to the computer, determined to ignore the man slowly sashay-thrusting toward him.

They were interrupted by Richard’s appearance in the doorway. He was covered in dust and holding a heavy beige contraption. “As they say on _Antiques Roadshow_ ,” he announced triumphantly, “we may have a real find!”

He paused to take in his scrambling officers. Dwayne was straightening up from what appeared to be a feral crouch, and Fidel was guiltily pausing a video on his computer. 

“And what misuse of valuable police time have we come up with today?” Richard mused, more annoyed that his _Antiques Roadshow_ quip had gone unheard than truly worried about Dwayne and Fidel. He lugged the beige contraption toward his desk. 

“Irish step dancing, chief,” said Dwayne, adjusting his belt and hat. “We were… eh, perusing some examples on YouTube.”

“Juliette is taking a class at the local dance school, sir,” said Fidel apologetically. “I was just curious. I’m sorry if it was a misuse of office property. I had already finished the CompStat reports.”

“Step dancing?” said Richard, trying to clear a space on his desk on which to lay his prize. “As in clogs? And stomping? And Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance?”

“Lord of the Dance, sir?” asked a puzzled Fidel.

“Before your time, my young friend,” said Dwayne chimed in. He turned to Richard. “Although I’m surprised you know who Michael Flatley is, chief. Didn’t think you were, uh… too strong in the pop culture department.”

Richard had placed the contraption on his desk and was now wiping it off with a handkerchief he’d fished out of a suit pocket. “Apparently, Dwayne, I have offended Camille by not knowing who Beyonce is, and must now make amends by learning all the mind-numbing minutiae that I have spent years managing to avoid. Other than in crossword puzzles, of course.”

At the mention of Camille, Fidel and Dwayne looked at each other. Richard continued. “Camille tried to educate me herself, but after 10 minutes of _Every Which Way But Essex_ I was ready to commit harakiri.”

Fidel tried to interject. “I think it’s called _The Only Way Is_ —“

“Truly, truly mind-numbing,” Richard did not stop his low-level rant. “If that is what constitutes entertainment in this day and age, I can only say I do not wish to be entertained.”

“Chief…” Dwayne tried to sound casual. “When did she show you _The Only Way Is Essex_?”

Richard had pulled some kind of solvent out of his top drawer and was now applying it to the contraption with the handkerchief. “The other night, here, after we closed the Bocker Le Coq case. So you are not the only one taking advantage of our brand-new high-speed internet connection, Fidel. Apparently there is all sorts of television one can watch online. This _Essex_ show, my lovely Fiona Bruce, a delightful documentary about turn-of the-century forensic techniques… and all perfectly legal, from what Camille tells me.”

Dwayne wasn’t all that sure it was perfectly legal, but instead he asked, “So did Sergeant Borday show you The Lord of the Dance?”

“No. I have decided to undertake my own pop-culture education, but in a less haphazard way than Camille suggested. I watch old episodes of _The News Quiz_ , in order starting with 1995, and then google any references I do not understand. Currently I am on October 1996. Last night I googled Michael Flatley, Mariah Carey, and the television show _Friends_.”

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” came a voice from the door. The three policemen turned to see Sergeant Borday standing there. Eyes twinkling, she addressed her superior: “And what did you decide — are you more of a Chandler or a Ross?”

“According to the Wikipedia entry,” responded Richard, “the character I most relate to is Gunther. He seems to have a steady job.”

“Nonsense,” said Camille, crossing the room to pour herself some tea. “You have the _exteriéur_ of a Chandler and the heart of a Ross.”

Richard frowned.

“It’s a compliment, sir,” said Fidel quickly. “Chandler is very intelligent.”

“Thank you, Fidel. But I must confess the only thing my Russ-like heart desires at the moment is to show you… _voilà!_ ” Richard had finished cleaning the contraption and now gestured at it with a decidedly un-Richard-like flourish of handkerchief.

His three fellow police officers stared and blinked. Richard realized the item was facing the wrong way. With short, struggling heaves he turned it on the desk so that it faced the others.

“An old computer?” said Camille, sipping tea.

“It’s a Commodore 64,” explained Richard. “When we upgraded and moved our old computers to the storage area, I had a suspicion this beauty might be hiding among the detritus.” He began to fuss with a power cord and a small TV set nearby. “I was nine years old when my father brought it home. We were the first family on the block to get a computer. Oh, young Richard had quite a time programming in the Logo language. Forward 10, Right 20” — Richard chuckled to himself — “Onward, young turtle!”

He was now entirely in a world of his own. The others looked at each other — Fidel and Dwayne to see if Camille had the patience today to ask Richard what, exactly, he was talking about.

Camille was opening her mouth to speak when she heard a quiet cough at the door. 

There stood the redoubtable police commissioner Selwyn Patterson in all his magisterial, scowling glory.

“Good morning, Commissioner!” said Camille loudly, shooting a glance at Richard, who popped his head up and exclaimed, “Ah, yes! Good morning, sir!” He wiped his face with the dusty handkerchief, leaving a gray streak on his forehead. Camille made a wiping gesture toward her own forehead, but Richard only frowned at her, uncomprehending.

“Good morning,” said the commissioner mildly. Like a warship he moved a few meters into the room and studied the team. “A bit of a word with you all, please.”

“Cup of tea, sir?” said Richard. Camille raised her own cup as an example.

The commissioner appeared not to have heard Richard. Instead, he spoke in his mild cadence: “I have just received word from my colleagues on the Saint Marie Tourism Board that there have been some… _irregularities_ with the Miss Tropical Beauty pageant this year.”

Fidel gasped. Camille said, “What sort of irregularities, sir?” Dwayne clutched his heart and uttered, “Not Miss Tropical Beauty!”

“A beauty pageant?” asked Richard dryly. “Do those still exist in 2013?”

“Oh, they do, Chief!” enthused Dwayne. “Miss Tropical Beauty has been happening in the Caribbean every year since 1965. Fidel’s mother was Miss Saint Marie 1982! Ohh, she was something.”

“She used the money she won to pay for her schooling,” explained Fidel, giving Dwayne the side-eye.

“And she went on to compete in the finals in Barbados!” continued Dwayne. “I tell you, she would have won the whole shooting match if it wasn’t for Miss Saint Fausse. Everyone knew she was stepping out with the judge. Your mother deserved to win!”

“Um… thank you, Dwayne,” Fidel grimaced.

“The Tropical Beauty pageant is sponsored by Tropical Beauty suntan lotion,” explained Camille to Richard. “Every year, a different country takes a turn hosting the competition. This year was Saint Marie’s turn.” She turned to the commissioner. “But there is a problem?”

“Yes,” replied the commissioner. “The executives of the Tropical Beauty Sunscreen Company are worried about financial impropriety. My contact would not go into the particulars on the phone, but I told them I would send them my… Very. Best. Team.” The commissioner pronounced these last words in a light staccato that indicated either emphasis or sarcasm, Richard was never sure.

“But sir, we’re not a financial crimes unit—” began Camille.

“Camille!” Dwayne cut her off. “Between you and the Chief, how many times have you caught a suspect off guard or noticed financial impropriety? And Fidel is a wiz at poring through paperwork! And I’ll be there to… canvass the area, and check out the… lay of the land. The commissioner is counting on us!”

“I have full faith in all of your abilities,” said the commissioner evenly. “But I believe today only the services of Detective Inspector Poole and Detective Sergeant Borday will be required. Good day.” 

And with that, the commissioner adjusted his hat, stepped out onto the veranda, squinted into the sun, and was gone.

Dwayne looked crestfallen. So did Richard. He was eyeing the Commodore 64 forlornly.

“You sure you don’t want me to go in your place, Chief?” asked Dwayne, sensing an opportunity.

“No, Dwayne,” sighed Richard. “That wouldn’t be right.” He put on his jacket and headed for the door.

Camille rolled her eyes and got the keys for the jeep.


	2. Business 101

“Before me, this pageant was a non-starter,” said Tag Norbert, producer, artistic director, and senior vice president of Tropical Beauty Live Productions. “I mean, just a real no-go. We’re talking ground zero, less than ground zero. But they brought me in and I doubled revenue. Doubled. Revenue. Can you believe that? They said it had never been done. Never.” 

Richard and Camille looked at each other. Tag pushed back from his Lucite desk, laced his fingers together and rested them on the back of his head. He paused only to breathe. “They said, ‘Tag, he’s not from here, he’s mister New York big shot, what does he know about pageants?’ And you know what I said to them? ‘You gotta use your resources!’ I mean, this is Business 101, kindergarten stuff. Look around, you got the most beautiful women in the world here! Those are your resources! I mean, I don’t gotta tell  _ you _ , Captain,” he addressed Richard, gesturing at Camille. “Look who you got working here.”

Richard opened his mouth, but apparently Norbert hadn’t expected a response and turned his attention to Camille. “I mean look at you, you’re a stone cold fox. A lady cop. Ouch!” He turned back to Richard and spoke conspiratorially. “Cop like that, I’m immediately thinking about the handcuffs, right?” He winked. It was the second time he had winked in the five minutes Richard and Camille had been standing in his office.

The office was in the Saint Marie Yachting and Sailing Club. Norbert had met them in the club’s lounge — “Normally I would have sent my assistant out to meet you, but she’s at lunch,” he said, “probably with the  _ boyfriend _ — or maybe girlfriend, you never know these days, huh?” — and led them down a hallway decorated in mahogany and antique frames. He ushered them into a large room with a stunning view of the the bay. The walls of the office were decorated in a style similar to the rest of the club — a bronze-edged mirror here, gilded fleur-de-lys wallpaper there — but the only furniture was an enormous, see-through table and a stark white office chair. The table was empty but for a closed silver laptop and what Richard took for a lamp, but was really more of an  _ objet d’art _ — it blazed the words  _ Tropical Beauty _ in neon tubing. Norbert sat behind the desk. Richard and Camille were left to stand.

After introductions and a somewhat forced apology from Norbert for the lack of seating (“We’re waiting on a big, big renovation to the regular office. But this is a top-notch club. Came highly recommended by all the VIPs”), the pageant mogul launched into a rambling discussion of his appreciation for law enforcement, and his enthusiastic, generous support of the Saint Marie Policemen’s Benevolent Association’s annual fundraiser and charity gala. Then he transitioned into his treatise on how he had revolutionized the pageant industry. 

“They say I revolutioni-- no, I  _ disrupted _ the pageant industry. I mean, that's what I do. Disrupt 24/7. I fly up to New York, they see me walk into a room, they say, ‘Oh, that’s Tag Norbert. He’s a real disrupter.’”

“Mister Norbert,” Richard cut in. “We were led to believe there have been some sort of financial irregularities with the pageant.”

“Yeah, well,” sighed Norbert, acting as if Richard had brought up some untoward gossip. “that’s… Sure, yeah, I guess you could say that. But you just hate to believe it.”

“Believe what, exactly?” asked Richard.

“That anyone would steal from Miss Tropical Beauty!” responded Norbert. “I mean, people love this pageant. It’s an institution!” He affected a despondent face. “Although you never know these days. You really don’t. All kinds of people in the world, lots of bad people. You don't know what they'll do.”

Camille adopted a professional tone Richard recognized as the one she took with drunks at her mother’s bar. “We’re going to need some actual details, Mister Norbert.”

“Ooh hoo hoo,” chuckled Norbert and again shot a knowing glance at Richard. “Lady cop’s not in the mood to play. All right, all right, I get it. We all have jobs to do. And I respect yours, I really do. I’ve been running TB Live for three years, all right? And I do everything. I do the pageant, I do the publicity tours, I do the social media curation — my numbers are huge — I shoot the promotional videos, I pick out the girls’ clothes, I do their hair — ha, no I’m kidding, I don't do hair, we got people for that. Professional calibre people, they do the best hair. But everything else, I do.”

“And?” said Camille.

“Alright, calm down, I’m getting there,” said Norbert. “What I’m saying is, I also do the numbers. For three years I’ve done all the numbers. And I know what I’m doing. I’m great with numbers. I do budgets, I do expense reports, I do... “ Norbert seemed to be fishing through his memory for the most impressive sounding word. “... _ conspectus. _ I do a lot of conspectus.”

“Why don’t you hire a financial expert? A CFO?” asked Richard.

“What am I telling you? We don't need one! I like it this way. And it goes great. Three years, things have been going great. It gives me artistic freedom. I like a little breathing room to work, ya know? And the money ain’t an issue. Believe me, we’re doing very well. Very well. Like, the expression ‘hand over fist’ might apply here.”

“ _ Con comme une ballai _ ,” said Camille in agreement.

“Exactly,” said Norbert. “You get it, lady cop. And by the way, I respect someone who can speak another language. I really respect that, that multi culti stuff. They say I have a natural aptitude for languages. I mean, I never had to — English is all you really need, when you get down to it, if you grow up in America and you’re, you know, on the right side of the tracks. But they say I have the aptitude for 15, 16 languages.”

“Who says that?” asked Richard.

“The people who give these kinds of tests. You know, the aptitude people. Very smart people.”

Richard decided it was no longer in his interest to attempt logic with Tag Norbert and pushed on: “So you’re the one who discovered the financial impropriety?”

“Yeah. Well,” Nobert said, and paused. “I mean, I was there. I had… an executive understanding of it.”

“What happened?”

“Look, something changed at the corporate level, all right? Tropical Beauty — I mean, they’re just the sponsors, but technically they do own the brand and they...” Norbert paused.

"Do they pay your salary?" said Camille.

"I mean, technically, sure. But the way I look at it, I'm the one paying their salary! I'm the one keeping the whole thing afloat! You think anybody would buy Tropical Beauty sunscreen if I didn't make this pageant into one of the biggest pageant,  _the_ biggest pageant, in the world? No! But these corporate guys, they just don't understand that. They don't know how  hard it is to do what I do. I work very hard."

"You said something 'changed at the corporate level,'" said Richard. "What was that?"

"Listen. Three years ago, they send me down here, everything’s hunky dory. 'Work your magic, Tag.' 'Only you can save us, Tag.' But then something changes. Some new board members come in, there's a change in the guard, yeah? Maybe there’s a problem with the board, I don’t know — people say maybe the board doesn’t know what it’s doing, I don’t know if that’s true and I hate to repeat gossip, but — I don’t know. And suddenly they want to know every detail. Every bit of every cent of every penny, where it all comes from, where it’s all going. They’re bean pushers!”

“They audited you,” realized Camille.

“They sent an  _ accountant _ ,” said Norbert with a disgust that others might reserve for a serial killer. “I spent weeks digging through reports and papers and receipts, accounting for everything. I mean, three years’ worth of numbers, I’m pushing around little receipts with my pinky, having an accountant log it in… Ridiculous.”

“And?” Camille prompted. Norbert looked at her. She said, “Did the accountant clear you?”

“Clear me?” Norbert suddenly looked angry. “Clear me? Who said anything about...? There was nothing to clear! I was making gobs of money for them! I wasn’t a suspect! Who said I was a suspect? Am I a suspect now? Is this a railroad job?”

“Calm down, Mister Norbert,” said Camille evenly. 

“Oh, I’m calm. I’m very calm. You’re the one who’s emotional, making accusations. Baseless accusations.”

“So you’re saying the company suspected something, but not you,” mollified Richard.

“That’s right,” pouted Norbert.

“And what did the accountant find?” asked Richard.

For the first time, Norbert avoided eye contact. 

Richard tried again: “Mister Norbert?” He didn’t respond.

“Was there money missing?” asked Camille, gently this time.

Norbert nodded, like a sullen boy.

“How much?” asked Richard.

There was a long pause. Then:

“2.2 million pounds,” said Norbert.

For the first time that day, Richard and Camille looked a little shocked.

“That’s, like, 2.8 million dollars,” said Norbert helpfully. Then, after another pause: “That’s a lot.”

“Indeed,” said Richard mildly. “That is quite a financial irregularity.”


	3. A Ludicrous Suggestion

Three days later, the team was elbow-deep in the stacks of paperwork Camille had managed to wrangle from Norbert and the Tropical Beauty corporate offices. Richard and Camille had debriefed Dwayne and Fidel on their interview with Norbert and then set to work on the unglamorous but crucial research they needed to get a fuller understanding of the case. Richard was studying the accountant’s report. Camille was doing background checks on Norbert and every Tropical Beauty executive, employee, and board member who had any contact with the pageant. Fidel had the least enviable job: sorting through every bit of financial data Norbert had kept — essentially retracing the steps of the accountant who had been sent by the Tropical Beauty higher-ups to investigate.

“Did you know that Tropical Beauty Sunscreen began as a small business right here on Saint Marie?” said Fidel. “It was incorporated here and then expanded to a global company.”

“I didn’t know that!” said Camille. “I love a local success story. Richard, do they have Tropical Beauty in England?”

“I don’t know,” said Richard without looking up from his paperwork. “One doesn’t need sunscreen if one never sees the sun.” The Commodore 64 sat on the ground; he'd decided to reserve it for himself as a treat once the case was finished. 

Dwayne, who had been out pressing his local contacts for information about the pageant, walked through the door like a cat who had not only eaten the canary, but was ready to vomit it up at his owner’s feet.

“Ah, Dwayne!” said Richard. “Any joy?”

“Nothing but, Chief. Nothing but.” Dwayne paused for effect. “I found out why Norbert keeps his office at the yacht club.”

“He can’t afford a real office?” asked Camille.

“You already knew?” said Dwayne, disappointed.

“We suspected,” Richard said. “The man is a brainless pufferfish. Camille and I already agreed that we can assume most of what Norbert said is either an outright lie or at best an exaggeration.”

“Even the bit about the handcuffs?” asked Camille innocently.

Richard flushed crimson. “Especially that!” he sputtered.

Camille smiled and turned back to Dwayne. “So what did you find out?”

“Well,” said Dwayne, warming up to his story, “turns out the booking manager for the Saint Marie Yachting and Sailing Club is none other than Jordania Prescott, whom I went to high school with and who — her words — has ‘never forgotten “The Main Dwayne.”’”

“‘The Main Dwayne’?” asked Fidel.

“My high school nickname,” said Dwayne. “As in, ‘the main man’? The Main Dwayne! Anyway, after a short but sweet journey down memory lane, and two margaritas, Jordania was willing to spill the dirt. No one at the club likes Norbert.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Richard.

“Apparently he treats the club staff as if they work for him, demanding that they clean the room, take messages for him. Jordania says he’s always scamming for free food and booze, and that he’s tried it on with every female member of staff at least twice.”

“So how did he get the room?” wondered Fidel.

“It was all arranged by a board member of Tropical Beauty,” said Dwayne. “Jordania doesn’t know who, but apparently, he’s a member of the yacht club and put pressure on the club to give Norbert a room for free to use as his ‘office.’”

“Hmmm,” said Camille, shuffling through the contents of a manila folder. “I think I know who that mysterious board member might be.”

“What have you got, Camille?” said Richard.

“Robert Norbert.” She held up a photo. “He’s Tag’s uncle and a board member of both Tropical Beauty and the yacht club. According to internal documents, Robert put _beaucoup_ pressure on the Tropical Beauty staff to hire Tag. They finally gave him the job over several more qualified applicants.”

“So Tag wasn’t a big-shot New York City businessman?” asked Fidel.

“Well, he didn’t lie about New York,” said Camille. “He grew up there after his parents emigrated from Saint Marie. But he wasn’t exactly a big shot. He did work for various financial consulting firms, but didn’t last too long at any of them -- a few months here, a few months there. Finally, there was no one left in New York who would hire him.”

“And so he came crying to Uncle Robert,” said Richard dryly, “who gave him the job of head bikini inspector.”

Once again the conversation was interrupted by a polite cough in the doorway. The team scrambled to its feet as Commissioner Patterson entered the room. “Sit, sit, please,” he calmed them. “I am here simply to inquire how the investigation is going.”

“Making some progress, sir,” said Richard. “But I must say, to echo Camille’s sentiment from a few days ago, we’re not exactly a financial crimes unit.”

“I understand your concern,” the commissioner said mildly. “I have reached out to my superiors in London. They have promised to check into the matter.” His already cool tone became downright icy. “I am told this level of corporate malfeasance does not warrant the immediate attention of MI5. But I was promised a response… at some point.”

“I suppose 2.2 million pounds only seems like a great deal of money to those of us who aren’t ‘disrupters,’” Richard fumed.

“Is that a number that you can corroborate?” asked the commissioner.

“So far the accountant’s report seems on the up and up,” said Richard.

“How do you lose that much money?” said a baffled Dwayne.

“In one keystroke, apparently,” said Richard, holding up the report. “According to this, Norbert had placed the pageant’s entire assets in a simple savings account. To access the account, all you needed was the password. With that, you could transfer the entire balance to a different account — even an untraceable one at a different bank. And apparently that is what someone did.”

“So this Norbert guy took it, right?” said Dwayne. “Case closed! I’ll meet you at Catherine’s.”

“If he did, we can’t prove it,” said Richard. “Not having more secure measures in place is certainly stupid, but it’s not criminal. He may have simply misplaced the password. He claims he didn’t share it with anyone.”

“The executives at Tropical Beauty seem to think that if he had stolen the money, he would have disappeared,” said Camille. “The funds were gone about a week before the accountant arrived. Tag stayed in his job the whole week.”

“And he’s still in it!” marveled Fidel.

“They’re keeping him around to help with the investigation,” said Camille. “Even if he’s innocent, he’ll probably be fired as soon as it’s over. His uncle can’t protect him much longer.”

“Tell me they’ve at least canceled the pageant,” said Richard.

“The pageant will continue as scheduled, as it has for 48 years,” said the commissioner in a clipped voice. “The company has agreed to provide the funds for a somewhat… less extravagant event.”

Richard frowned. Dwayne sent up a hallelujah.

“And…” the commissioner paused briefly. “There is one other matter.”

Richard tensed. The commissioner’s out-of-the-blue “other matters” often left him blindsided.

“Mister Norbert called me directly and proposed an idea which, I think, is actually quite good,” the commissioner said. 

“Really, sir?” said Camille, echoing everyone's disbelief.

“He related the news that, alas, this year’s Miss Saint Marie is suffering from bacterial meningitis. As the pageant is a mere few days away, she has officially withdrawn from the competition.”

“That’s a serious condition,” said Richard. “Is she all right?”

“She is receiving excellent care at the Guadeloupe Teachers Hospital and is expected to make a full recovery,” said the commissioner. “Mister Norbert has apparently visited her personally.”

“Of course he has,” muttered Richard.

“But that leaves the question,” continued the commissioner, “as to who will take her place.”

“The runner-up, sir?” said Fidel. 

“This year, the runner-up happened to be Miss Saint Marie’s sister, who has vowed to stay at the hospital with her, and thus has also disqualified herself.”

“Is there a second runner-up?” asked Camille.

“Unfortunately, no,” said the commissioner. “No other prizes have been awarded, and apparently the judges’ tallies have all disappeared.”

“Not surprising,” said Fidel. “They’re probably somewhere in here!” He gestured at his paper-covered desk.

“And what is Mr. Norbert’s idea, then, Commissioner?” asked Richard warily, sensing a trap of some kind.

The commissioner smiled. “He suggested that Miss Saint Marie’s place could be filled by an undercover officer, who would pose as a contestant.” He turned to Camille. “And he had a suggestion as to who that undercover officer should be.”

Camille grimaced. Fidel and Dwayne immediately started laughing. “Ayyyyoh,” cackled Dwayne. “That man has some nerve.” Fidel could only shake his head.

“Absolutely not!” shouted Richard. He was so loud the others turned to him in surprise.

“That is a ludicrous suggestion and a waste of an excellent police officer,” raged Richard, “and the most indecent and vulgar attempt at a romantic overture, if one can even use that euphemism regarding such a blatant display, that I have ever heard of in my time on—”

“Richard,” said Camille evenly. “I have done undercover work before. When you met me, I was undercover.”

“You were also wearing a bikini! That doesn’t mean you have to take every undercover bikini-wearing assignment that is launched your way by every ham-fisted, triple-jowled cretin who crawls out from under a rock!” Richard stopped himself as he noticed the expression of the other three people in the room. “What I mean is— Of course you are capable of the work. That goes without question. But… it’s demeaning.”

“Demeaning?” countered Camille. “Isn’t that for me to decide? Are you my superior officer or my father? And, _par parenthèse_ , I am certainly capable. I was capable enough to fool you into thinking I was a maid — in a house that _manifestement_ hadn’t been cleaned in years. Or were you not thinking with your brain at that moment?”

“I beg your pardon!” said Richard. “You seem to think that all men are Tag Norbert. Well, we are not. Although maybe we should be, given how enthusiastically his idiotic ideas are received in these parts!”

“So now I’m an idiot?”

“That’s not what I said and you know it!”

“Richard, this may be our best chance at getting more information about this case! We need to talk to someone besides Norbert and do something besides stare at account ledgers! And if you don't believe that I can resist the 'charms' of Tag Norbert, I don't even know what to say to you!”

Richard hesitated. He sensed he would not win this battle but was not fully prepared to give up. He turned to the commissioner, who, like the other two men in the room, had recoiled in horror and sympathy for the detective inspector as soon as he had opened his mouth. “Commissioner, you can’t allow this. It’s… it’s not safe. With that little clothing, we can’t risk a wire. If anything happens, none of us will know. We’ll be too far away. She’ll have no way of calling for backup.” Richard was clutching at straws and he knew it. “Er… Where will she hide a weapon?”

“Where will I hide a weapon???” Camille was enraged. “Would you like another demonstration of my krav maga skills? Or is your bruised ego still healing?”

“Errrrr,” the commissioner finally intervened. “I understand your concern,” he said for not the first time that afternoon. “But Detective Sergeant Borday is certainly qualified for the operation, and if she is willing to return to undercover work, it does seem like an opportunity best not wasted.” He quickly cut off Richard’s protests: “However, it is true that communication with the rest of the team may be lacking, and impede your coordination of efforts. I will look into getting the rest of you involved in the pageant in some way that will not arouse suspicion, so that we may best support the operation as spearhead by Detective Sergeant Borday.”

The commissioner paused, winded. It was rare for him to speak for more than two sentences. But he had sensed that this was a situation so delicate, a bit of loquaciousness was in order. Having said his peace, however, he made for the door, offering only a quick “Keep me apprised of any other developments” over his shoulder before escaping into the sunshine.

The others sat in silence for a bit, Richard and Camille seething, Fidel and Dwayne suddenly very interested in their paperwork.


	4. A Soupcon of Advice

A few days later, Dwayne was sending silent prayers of gratitude to the occupational gods who had inspired him to apply for the police force all those years ago. For here he was, surrounded by 16 beautiful women in cocktail dresses, all watching him pretend to put Fidel in a headlock.

“And most importantly,” he said, making sustained, direct eye contact with each lovely lady, “do not be worried. I am here for you. Officer Dwayne Myers, SMPD.” 

“SMPD?” asked a woman wearing a “Miss Trinidad and Tobago” sash.

“Saint Marie Police Department,” said Dwayne proudly.

“Ah,” said Miss Trinidad wryly. “And here I thought you were saying you had a sexually transmitted infection.”

As the women laughed and Dwayne frowned, Fidel extracted himself from the headlock.

Dwayne — newly installed by Richard and the commissioner as “coordinating security liaison” to the pageant — had insisted on providing the contestants with a quick pre-show personal safety lecture. Though it was certainly helpful, it had also included what Fidel felt was an unnecessarily large amount of martial arts holds, punches and kicks. And it had not gone unnoticed by Camille — who was now fully undercover and standing among the 15 other women — that Dwayne had rolled up his sleeves an extra tuck, exposing more bicep than police regulations deemed strictly necessary. At one point he had even done a few push-ups, assuring the women that he was in “peak physical condition.”

“And what’s  _ your  _ name?” asked Miss Saint Fausse. She was addressing Fidel.

“Officer Fidel Best,” he replied.

“I  _ bet _ you’re the best,” Miss Saint Fausse murmured.

Fidel blanched. “I’ll be working the perimeter,” he announced to the group, voice cracking, “monitoring the crowd and watching from the audience while you’re all onstage. As Officer Myers said, we’re not expecting any trouble. This is purely routine.”

“You  _ work _ that perimeter, Officer Best,” said Miss Saint Fausse. “But you be sure to keep your eyes on me.”

The women laughed and hooted. Someone in the back of the crowd whistled. Fidel was saved from responding by the bellowing entrance of Tag Norbert. “Ladies ladies lay-deeeeeez!” he proclaimed, leading with his belly into the room. “Line up for inspection hahahaha!”

The mood in the room changed abruptly. Camille felt the women around her quiet and stiffen. Even Miss Saint Fausse seemed to have suddenly blended into the crowd.

Norbert stopped short upon seeing Dwayne and Fidel. “Officers!” he said and laughed nervously. “I see you’ve gotten here before me. Any follow-up inspection necessary hahahaha?” 

“We were just going over basic protection measures,” said a frowning Fidel, as Dwayne narrowed his eyes at Norbert.

“Protection? Who you protecting, them or the poor saps they’re tryin’ to get their hooks into?” said Norbert, casting his eye over the women. “Let me tell you, you got some real man-eaters on your hands here, officers.” His eye stopped on Miss Jamaica. “Isn’t that right, Luelle? Some real man-eaters.”

Miss Jamaica only stared stonily at him.

“Oof!” cackled Norbert. “Silent treatment. All right, Luelle, all right.” He moved his focus to Camille. “Miss Saint Marie! Well, well, well. Thank you for joining us on such late notice. Have you settled in? Anything I can do to make your time with us more, uh,  _ incroyable _ ?”

“No, thank you,” said Camille smoothly. “You’re already pretty  _ incroyable. _ ”

Norbert laughed heartily and elbowed Dwayne, who only looked more annoyed. “Oh hohohho! I bet I stepped in it somehow, huh, officer? I gotta work on my French, apparently. Maybe you can help me do that, Miss Saint Marie. Huh? Help me work on your… mother tongue?” He laughed again, apparently oblivious that he was the only one in the room even cracking a smile. “Okay okay okay, I’ll see myself out. Officers, you make sure these ladies stay in line. No cat fights! Hahahaha.” Almost out the door, he turned back to wink one last time, “But I think a pillow fight would be okay. Right, officers? Hahahahaha.”

Once he was gone the room relaxed. Only Miss Jamaica gave Camille a cold stare before hurrying out the door. Fidel, studiously avoiding the eyes of Miss Saint Fausse, followed. The others untensed and started to chat among themselves.

Dwayne stood by himself for a moment. Something about Norbert’s effect on the women in the room, combined with the way he assumed Dwayne and Fidel would be on board with his sentiments, had triggered a feeling in Dwayne of… well, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Disgust? Guilt? Acknowledgment? Something gnawed at him but he couldn’t quite articulate what it was. Pensively, he untucked his short sleeves to the standard regulation length.

***

Fifteen minutes later, Camille was in her dressing room, which she shared with the contestants from Trinidad and Tobago, Saint Fausse, Jamaica and the Virgin Islands. 

“Ooh, that Officer Best is a  _ menace _ ,” Miss Saint Fausse was musing as she rubbed cocoa butter onto her legs. “You know him, Saint Marie?”

“No, why?” Camille asked, caught off guard. It had been a while since she had gone undercover. Had she already been pegged as a narc?

“Apparently you know everyone,” said Miss Jamaica icily. “And they know you.” She gave herself a last look in the mirror and then announced to no one in particular, “I’ll be in the green room,” before walking out the door.

Camille grimaced. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, God no. Ignore Jamaica,” said Miss Trinidad. “Silly cow.”

“Benita!” said Miss Virgin Islands from the corner of the room.

“She is!” continued Miss Trinidad, not unkindly. “If you’re going to hitch your wagon to someone else’s star, don’t make it Tag Norbert, of all people. He’s  _ odious _ . And of course his star isn’t going to rise as quickly as you think it is.” She finished putting in a dangling earring and shook her head in the mirror to make sure it didn’t catch in her dress. “But I am sorry I took the Lord’s name in vain, Rachel.”

“It’s all right,” said Miss Virgin Islands quetly, adjusting her necklace. “You’re right, Tag Norbert is odious.”

Miss Saint Fausse laughed heartily. “Wow! Saint Marie, you just saw something I thought I’d never see… Rachel Eldersmith talking  _ bad _ about someone.”

Miss Virgin Islands blushed. “Some people just have a little less of God’s grace than others,” she said, smiling meekly. Miss Saint Fausse and Miss Trinidad cackled appreciatively.

“But real talk,” Miss Saint Fausse said, wiping the tears from her eyes with her pinky nail and turning her attention again to Camille. “Officer Best. Island this small, you gotta know  _ somebody _ who knows him — a brother, a friend, his barber. Hook a sister up!”

Camille smiled. “Saint Marie is small, but not that small,” she said.

“Girl, I know,” said Miss Saint Fausse, rubbing Vaseline on her teeth. “My island’s just as small as yours. Except our police force isn’t nearly as  _ fine _ .”

“And I’m sure you’ve met every police officer on your island,” said Miss Trinidad dryly. 

“B! I swear!” cackled Miss Saint Fausse, throwing a powder puff at Miss Trinidad.

“Oi! Watch the dress!” said Miss Trinidad.

“You watch your mouth!” retorted Miss Saint Fausse. “Saying I’m on intimate terms with the police.” But after a moment she muttered, “You not wrong, though.”

Again the room dissolved into cackles, with all four women joining in. Camille had to admit: she liked these women.

As they continued to finish up their makeup, she ventured, “Miss Jamaica and Tag Norbert… Does that happen a lot? With pageants, I mean?”

She felt the other women tense. 

“Why you wanna know?” said Miss Saint Fausse evenly, adjusting a false eyelash. 

“I just…” Camille paused. “Well, it might be worth it. I heard Tag Norbert may have come into some money recently.”

Now the room was downright silent.

Miss Trinidad pushed her chair back, stood up, smoothed out her dress, and turned her full attention to Camille. “Because you’re new to the circuit, Saint Marie, I will offer you this  _ soupcon _ of advice,” she said. “If you want money, do what the rest of us do and  _ earn it _ . That means win this pageant. And the next one. And the one after that. And when you do that, I will give you the name of a very good investment advisor. And that man is the only man you should ever trust with money, whether it be yours, his, or the good Lord’s.” With that, she turned and walked out the door.

“Preach,” said Miss Saint Fausse, bustling to her feet and heading for the exit herself. “Oh and more advice, Saint Marie — next pageant, you gotta get a good push-up bra!” She laughed, again not unkindly, before disappearing into the hall.

Camille was left holding her lipstick. She peered at her chest.

“Don’t worry about the bra,” said Miss Virgin Islands quietly from the other end of the room. “You’ll do fine.”

“Thank you,” said Camille, still eyeing the neckline of her dress. For a moment she flashed on Liz Curtis, the treasure hunter whose yellow bikini had left Richard a bit… distracted during their inquiries. After a moment, she let the memory go and said, “It seems like you know these women pretty well.”

Miss Virgin Islands shrugged. “We’ve been on the pageant circuit for a long time,” she said. “We started when we were babies.” She touched her necklace. “We’ve become a bit like a family. They don’t mean to be unkind. But pageants… for some of them, it’s a way out.”

“Out of what?” asked Camille.

The quiet woman shrugged again. “Just out. Or up. Money, family, relationships… they’re not always…” She struggled to come up with a word. “…kind. The Lord has blessed some of these women with a natural beauty and poise. Some He blessed with hard work and ambition. They’re just using these blessings to the best of their ability. But, at the end of the day, it is a competition.”

“Two minutes, ladies!” Tag Norbert could be heard shouting the hall. “Two minutes! It’s showtime!”

Miss Virgin Islands stood up. “Are you ready?” she said.

Camille smiled. “I think I am.” She looked at herself in the mirror. She really was.


	5. A Tense Situation

The pageant was being held in the foothills of Saint Marie, on the old fairgrounds. Back in the day, Fidel remembered, the fair had been held one weekend a year, and it seemed like the whole island had attended. Fidel had fond memories of riding rickety coasters with his sisters, eating sticky-sweet _maduros_ with his mother, trying to win prizes at the ring-toss with his father. But the fair had gone out of business long ago, the rides and games pried up and hauled out on lorries. The land, mostly empty now, was rented out for weddings, business events, sports tournaments — a flat space on which to build tents, set against the backdrop of Saint Marie’s verdant mountains.

Tag Norbert had originally intended to produce the Tropical Beauty pageant at Saint Marie’s swankiest hotel, Le Cygne Noir, with side events at the yacht club — a “Meet the Contestants” happy hour, for example, and a “brand activation” at which a new sunscreen would be debuted. These events, of course, would have “cost a little more, sure,” Norbert told Richard’s team, but they were “totally premium” and gave attendees “dynamite access to the goods” — the “goods” being either sunscreen or the pageant contestants, it was unclear.

Of course, with the loss of over 2 million pounds, Norbert had been forced to downsize. In fact, he had been iced out — the corporate office had hired an outside event planning company (“Real losers!” Norbert complained), which booked the old fairgrounds and arranged everything within a matter of days.

They had done an amazing job in a very limited amount of time, Fidel thought as he surveyed the stage and grounds. The stage consisted of three-foot-tall risers, with steps down the back that led to the large white tent housing the backstage area and green room. Next to the tent, off to the side, a few caravans and larger RVs served as the contestant dressing rooms. 

Over the stage arced a truss that held lights, speakers, and a gigantic Tropical Beauty sign made out of two-metre-tall metallic letters. Fidel squinted at it. The iconic logo had been tweaked a few times over the years to stay up-to-date design-wise, but the basic look remained the same: hot pink cursive letters that joined and stretched to convey sizzling beach glamour. Fidel noticed for the first time, now that he was looking at an example a few metres wide, that the “T” in “Tropical” was actually an abstracted woman’s silhouette. She was holding up her arms, palms in the air, face upturned to the skies as if worshipping the sun, and she wore a bathing suit, but her feet ended in stiletto heels. _Who wears stiletto heels to the beach?_ , thought Fidel. He suspected they were the brainchild of a male graphic designer.

Fidel turned his eyes to the crowd. The scene felt much more like a music festival than a traditional pageant — a few hundred people stood in the clearing in front of the stage, milling around and chatting. The skies above were cornflower blue, vendors were selling Red Stripe and chicken kebabs in booths in a row off to the left side, and the right side had some temporary aluminum stadium seats, a press area, and a VIP box. In the back of the crowd were a few more seats, as well as the tech booth, where the light and sound operators sat wearing headsets and adjusting the levers on the boards in front of them. Farther away, out of view, stood rows of Johnny on the Job portable toilets, and even farther still were the entrance gates, the ticket booths, and the path leading to the car park. 

Fidel turned his attention back to the crowd. It was early afternoon, and people were drinking, but no one seemed too drunk. Occasionally the smell of weed floated through the air. Fidel ignored it. In the VIP box stood Commissioner Patterson, DI Poole, and a handful of men and women in power suits — the Tropical Beauty executives, Fidel assumed. The commissioner was speaking to a woman with a red scarf and gesturing to the hills. He seemed in his element. Richard, scowling nearby and watching the crowd, did not.

Fidel could see Dwayne making his rounds near the stage, checking the risers, moving in and out of the tent, monitoring the backstage area. When he finally came out, he looked across the stage and made eye contact with Fidel. They gave each other a nod. They were ready.

***

Inside the white tent, a stage manager was ushering the contestants from the green room into an open area near the stage. A prim woman wearing a headset and holding a clipboard, she was attempting to undo Tag Norbert’s “organizing.” It turned out that the “two minutes” Norbert had shouted into each caravan was actually 15 — he had wanted everyone gathered for yet another Tag Norbert motivational speech/group harassment. (“You gotta build in an extra 10 minutes with this crew, believe you me,” Norbert had told the frustrated stage manager. “These ladies can barely manage their stockings and curlers, if you know what I mean.”)

“And you ladies are gonna like this,” Norbert was now talking to the contestants as they murmured and made last-minute wardrobe adjustments. “We got a big-shot guest judge for this one. I think you’re gonna like him. He’s an old friend, a _compadre_. We go way back. He’s a very sexy guy. I mean, I’ve been called a sexy guy myself, sure, and not by dogs, either — I mean, all the major papers in New York, reputable sources, they know what I’ve got going on, we’ll put it that way. But this fella… Anyway, I think you’re gonna like this news. We’ve got Yoskar Sarante coming in.” 

This finally elicited a reaction from the listeners. “Shut your mouth,” said Miss Saint Fausse, astounded. She wasn’t the only one who was giddy. Yoskar Sarante — the well-known bachata singer from the Dominican Republic — was an actual, talented, real-live celebrity. Excitement filled the air.

“That’s right,” smiled Norbert and repeated, “He’s an old friend. And he’s doing me a favor. Well, actually, let’s just say he owes me. He should be rolling in any minute now. And when he’s done judging, maybe he’ll even favor us with a song.”

“ _Ay, Dios mío!_ ” gasped Miss Dominican Republic. She looked like she was about to faint. The chatter rose to a small din in the tent. 

The stage manager looked bewildered. She leafed through the papers on her clipboard and spoke into her headset.

Camille took the moment to look for an exit. “I know, you’re bedazzled,” she heard Norbert shout at the women as she slipped out of the tent. “But listen now, I don’t want you ladies to go all cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs out there…” 

As soon as she was outside, Camille made a beeline for the smallest caravan, which the pageant was using as a first aid station and storage closet. 

She walked casually but quickly, taking just a moment to make sure no one was around before opening the caravan door, jumping inside — 

—and colliding straight-on with Richard, throwing them both off balance. They fell into a closet.

“Gyargh!” It was not the most graceful noise Richard had ever emitted, he realized. But nothing about the situation was particularly graceful. The two detectives struggled and squirmed in a tangle of limbs, bandages, and other first aid supplies. Camille, lying on top of Richard, was trying to find some purchase, a place to apply leverage to get herself on her feet. She put her hands on Richard’s chest and attempted a push-up. His back slammed against what felt like a crutch on the floor. “Stop,” he said, wincing. “Stop. Stop!”

She did. 

They paused, their breaths heavy, considering the situation. It occurred to Camille, fleetingly, that the chest she had just pushed against was a bit more firm than she would have expected. Not overly muscular, certainly, but… firm. Richard, for his part, could only think of the pain that was spreading from the crutch’s point of impact across his lower back. He stretched to alleviate the discomfort and looked up, locking eyes with Camille.

They stared at each other a half-second too long. 

Quashing a rising sense of panic he couldn’t quite define, Richard held up his palms. “Here,” he said, trying to sound calm. Camille immediately understood the plan and pushed against his open hands to right herself. In one swift movement she was vertical and extending her own hand to Richard, who ignored it and stood up a touch less nimbly. 

“I don’t suppose you could enter a caravan like a normal person instead of launching yourself like a trebuchet,” he barked.

“I don’t suppose you could stand somewhere besides the doorway,” she countered.

They had barely spoken in the days after their argument. Work conversations had been strictly business, planning pageant logistics with Norbert, the commissioner, Fidel, and Dwayne. And instead of helping Richard with his pop-culture education or joining the rest of the team for a drink at her mother’s bar, Camille had left the station promptly at the end of each work day, claiming to need preparation time for her undercover assignment. And so Richard had attempted to continue his education on his own — Boyzone, Baywatch, culottes — but his enthusiasm had waned.

“Anything to report?” he said now as they both straightened their clothes.

“Yes,” said Camille. “The big talk among the contestants is about the change in pageant venue, but no one seems to know about the missing money. Everyone has noticed that the budget is smaller this year, of course. The contestants are angry they have to do their own hair and makeup. But the rest is all gossip.”

“Any particular people doing the gossiping?”

“Not really. Most of them assume business is bad for Tropical Beauty. Miss Puerto Rico said their new Tangerine Dream line smells like ‘hot garbage in a sea of trash,’” Camille smiled at the memory.

“And I suppose it would be too much to ask if anyone had recently come into money,” mused Richard. “From a ‘dearly departed auntie,’ perhaps?”

“If they had, I doubt they’d still be on the pageant circuit,” said Camille. “These women work pretty hard.”

“Hm,” said Richard. “Anything else?”

“I think Miss Jamaica might be having an affair with Norbert. Or recently ended an affair.”

“Good God. Someone would—” Richard winced in lieu of saying the words, “—with that man?”

“She might have thought he could help her with the pageant,” shrugged Camille, starting for the door. “I have to get back before they come looking for me.”

“Fine,” said Richard. “Listen, Camille—”

She turned back. Richard wasn’t sure what he was about to say — “Good luck”? “Take care of yourself”? Instead, he said: “Don’t you own more than one dress?” 

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Camille’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s the same thing you wore to the Erzulie festival.”

Her already angry expression tightened as she silently turned to leave, though Richard thought he heard a hissed “ _Imbécile!_ ” before the door swung shut.

***

He waited a few minutes before following Camille to the backstage tent.

It was in an uproar. In one corner stood the Tropical Beauty executives, shouting heatedly at each other. The stage manager was dashing around, grabbing other people wearing headsets. A man wearing a sequined jacket, who had earlier been introduced to Richard as the pageant’s emcee, was chasing after her, shouting something about his contract. And in the middle of the tent, the pageant contestants were shouting at Norbert, who was shouting back. Dwayne stood between them, arms outstretched, shouting for everyone to calm down.

“You’re a liar, Norbert!” screamed Miss Martinique. 

“You greasy-haired windbag!” yelled Miss Saint Fausse as a frowning Miss Virgin Islands put a hand on her shoulder. The other contestants had even stronger words.

“You need to get yourselves under control!” screamed Norbert, face red and bespittled. “I am the boss here, not you! I am the boss!!!”

Camille stood among the other women. Richard could see her body tensing, getting ready to step in if things got physical.

The Tropical Beauty executives had cornered the overwrought stage manager, who was saying, “I told you, his people say we canceled! He’s somewhere in Antigua, there’s no way we can get him now!”

Richard walked up to Commissioner Patterson, who was eyeing the events warily.

“What happened, sir?” asked Richard.

“Mr. Norbert seems to have made a promise he could not keep,” the commissioner said philosophically. “Apparently he swore to the ladies that Yoskar Sarante would be judging the pageant, but Yoskar Sarante has not arrived and it is now, as they say, showtime.”

“Who’s Yoskar Sarante?” 

“You surprise me, Inspector,” said the commissioner. “He is a singer of some repute — and, Mr. Norbert claims, a close personal friend. Though that seems to be in question.”

“They don’t have a backup judge?”

“The event management company _had_ hired Giles Dentón.”

“Am I supposed to know who _that_ is?” said Richard.

“He runs a very respected finishing school on Guadeloupe,” said the commissioner. “My own niece has attended this institution. But Mr. Dentón also makes a second career of judging beauty pageants. He is apparently well known in these circles.”

“So where is he?”

“He says someone called him yesterday to say his services would no longer be necessary. This was a surprise to most of the organizers.”

“Norbert,” said Richard.

“This would be my guess as well,” mused the commissioner.

“He can’t stand to have things go well under the new regime, so he sabotages the judging,” continued Richard. “Then calls this Yoskar Saranto—”

“Sarante,” corrected the commissioner.

“Sarante, thinking he’ll call in a favor and look like a hero. The question is whether he intended for a judge to show up at all.”

The shouting between Norbert and the contestants continued. Miss Puerto Rico had thrown an earring. Dwayne was just barely keeping the women from attacking.

“Why are they so angry?” asked Richard.

“Perhaps that is a question you can ask Detective Sergeant Borday at a later time. For now, I would venture to guess that this was, as they say, the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“Commissioner!” the stage manager called. She and the pack of executives were approaching with a hopeful look.

“Excuse me, Inspector,” said the commissioner.

As he and the group of businesspeople conferred among themselves, Richard strode toward the melee. He glanced over to make sure Camille was fine, though he made sure not to make eye contact.

“Could use some help here, Chief,” admitted Dwayne, his arms still outstretched like a human fence. Richard nodded.

“Mister Norbert,” he turned commandingly to the blustering impresario behind Dwayne, “come with me, please. Official police business.” Norbert was caught off balance by Richard’s tone of voice and the hand on his arm. Before he knew it, he had been dragged to the back of the tent.

Camille watched from the confused crowd, which was now calming a bit since the focus of its ire was no longer shouting back. Richard talked to Norbert without stopping, his expression calm, as if nothing were amiss. He had positioned himself between Norbert and the women, and every time Norbert tried to look past him, Richard repositioned himself slightly and refocused Norbert’s attention on himself. It was an old beat cop’s trick, Camille knew, for de-escalating a tense situation — separate the antagonists, take their statements, project calm detachment, focus them on telling their stories. 

Taking a cue from his boss, Dwayne was doing the same with the women. The crisis, which had seemed insurmountable moments before, was abating. Ever so slightly, Camille’s shoulders relaxed.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” announced the stage manager, managing to get almost everyone’s attention. “I believe we have a solution to the problem at hand!”

“Oh, yeah?” said Miss Trinidad.

“Yes,” responded the stage manager, who glanced at the commissioner and the executives. They nodded back in encouragement. “Please meet your new judge, Detective Inspector Richard Poole!”

Everyone turned to the back of the tent. Norbert frowned, confused. Richard stood stock still. He looked from the stage manager to the women to Camille to Dwayne to the commissioner. 

The stage manager looked back, hopeful. The women looked unimpressed. Camille looked shocked. Dwayne looked jealous. And the commissioner had an otherwise unreadable expression that Richard knew well. Its translation: “If you ever want to see London again, you will do this.”

***

“But I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be judging on,” cried Richard to the commissioner as the stage manager hustled everyone toward the stage. 

“I trust your instincts,” responded Patterson. 

Richard felt a hand on his belt and instinctively grabbed it. “Ow!” said a man wearing a headset. “Calm down, friend, I’m just putting your mike on you.” The man held up a wireless microphone.

“Put it on as we walk,” instructed the stage manager, then said into her headset. “Thirty seconds to curtain.” She continued ushering the group toward the stage. “Emcee, you ready?” she barked.

“My _name_ is Damian,” sniffed the emcee. 

“Emcee ready,” she said into the headset. “Cue music in 20 seconds.”

Someone pinned a large “JUDGE” button to Richard’s lapel. Behind him the sound operator was attaching the wireless microphone’s transmitter to his belt, snaking the wire up under his shirt, and attaching it to his collar. “Sir,” Richard searched out the commissioner again, “surely you should do this instead. You’re actually in uniform.”

The commissioner smiled. “The position was offered to me, but due to the… interests of decorum… I had to politely decline. You were the next, and natural, selection.”

"You mean I was the only one left in the room without a connection to Tropical Beauty."

“Music go,” said the stage manager into her headset. The speakers above the stage came alive, and the crowd cheered in anticipation.

“Ready emcee,” said the stage manager to Damian, who nodded professionally and turned on a handheld microphone.

“Hey, can’t I have one of those?” said Richard.

“Emcee go,” said the stage manager. Damian bounded out of the tent, up the steps, and onto the stage to embrace the cheers of the audience.

“You ready?” said the stage manager to Richard.

“And if I say no?” said Richard sarcastically.

“ _Bonne chance_ , Inspector,” said the commissioner. “I have no doubt you will make the right decisions, and make Saint Marie very proud.”

“Please give it up for your pageant judge…” the voice of the emcee blasted through the speakers.

“Judge go,” said the stage manager and shoved Richard out of the tent.

“…Saint Marie’s very own top cop with the bebop, Detective Inspector Richard Poooooole!”

Richard walked up the stairs and onto the stage. He stood in the glaring sun, his dark woolen suit heavy with sweat. The mostly tipsy crowd stared at him. Some applauded. Near the back, Fidel’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“Give us a wave, Detective Inspector!” oozed the emcee. “And don’t look so glum. Plenty of blokes out there wouldn’t mind being in your shoes right now!” A few men whooped.

Richard sighed and waved awkwardly. He suspected the next few hours would be some of the most difficult of his life.


End file.
